


Kill the Lights

by MrSpears



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Trans, Angst, Crack Relationships, Dark, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Prostitution, Self-Indulgent, Suicide, Trans Character, junkie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:30:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/MrSpears
Summary: Crackships, modern and high school AU's, a collection of short trash fics.Chapters:- "Circus King" Modern!AU Ronald/Joker- "Just Survive" HighSchool!AU Eric/Alan





	1. Circus King - Modern!AU Ronald/Joker

The dive bar is crowded enough that if Ronald wasn’t already sitting by the bar, he wouldn’t be able to reach it now. The bartenders are old friends and he comes here often enough that they know to just slide him a bourbon old-fashioned across the counter every now and then even when they are being pulled in all directions. He’s knocked back two, maybe three already and he hasn’t been here a full hour. He will down two or three more before he decides to leave for the night. Nothing too dramatic. He holds his liquor better as a dead man than he ever did living – go figure, but even his liver doesn’t believe in overtime. 

The air is going grey as smoke pouring from the burning ends of lit cigarettes creates a haze that burns his nose and makes his throat tingle. He is itching for a cigarette, but he finished his last one on the way here. Now all he has is a crumpled package shoved into his pocket alongside his phone and a nearly-empty lighter. Tonight is not his night. An argument with Grell. A sharp email from William. He just wants to douse his woes in alcohol and go to bed. 

His peripherals don’t even do their job of catching the person who approaches his side. He doesn’t notice until he feels something prod his arm, and he glances down to catch sight of the cigarette package – somehow in worse condition than his own – clutched between skeletal fingers. The finest materials money could once buy. That hand has seen better days. 

Ronald freezes. His gaze drifts upwards – unable to talk past the ball of ice that has frozen in his throat. His hazy vision starts to pull it all together – looking past the clouds of cigarette smoke and the dim, ugly yellow lights. Sure, he would know that flame red hair anywhere – haphazardly shorn with faded pink braids draped over broad shoulders. He knows those violet eyes, too. Lined with black – the eyeliner flaking, leaving mournful streaks wherever it has been rubbed away. Joker had always been talented with makeup, especially – his wings always pitch black, impeccably spiked. You wouldn’t know it to look at him now. 

He prods Ronald gently again, clearly in the process of offering him a cigarette. Ronald deliberately ignores it, holding that mournful, guarded gaze with his own. Another minute ticks by – it is starting to feel like his heart is skipping every other beat. 

“Fancy meeting ‘ee here,” Joker breaks the silence that had swallowed the short distance between them. Ronald clenches his teeth, setting his jaw as he turns his head away, suddenly very invested in his drink. 

“Fuck off,” Ronald’s fingers curl against the countertop. Without his gloves, his nails scrape the gouged and scarred surface. 

“Oh, me ‘andsome, don’t…” Joker doesn’t drop the accent. He doesn’t drop the goddamn accent which means he feels he’s putting on a show, even now. Ronald always hated it when he did that. Hated when Joker performed, rather than letting his guard down. It was hypocritical. Ronald never really let his guard down for Joker, either. 

“Drop the showmanship,” Ronald snips, “and we can talk.” 

“Aye,” Joker exhales, equal amounts of defeat and exasperation. “’Ee would ‘ave me drop the final scraps of me dignity? Should I lay it at yer fine shoes?” 

Ronald doesn’t say anything. He just gives Joker a long look, and waits. 

Joker exhales again. More defeated, this time around. 

“I came looking for ‘ee,” he’s dropping it, slowly. It’s a hard habit to get out of. He softens his voice to compensate. “I look for ‘ee here almost every night.” 

“You don’t have to go through all that trouble, just to see me.” Unspoken – Joker knows exactly the fastest method of summoning a reaper.

Joker shrugs. He finally pulls his hand back to his chest, using his good hand to tug a cigarette free from the hopeless packaging. “Got a light, me ‘andsome?” 

“What is it you want from me, again?” Ronald can feel his patience wearing extremely thin. He isn’t sure exactly what he hoped to find here, tonight, but it wasn’t this. This isn’t even close. “I have to be home. I have to work in the morning, and…” 

“Just a minute,” desperation is starting to edge in on Joker’s voice. “A moment to speak with ‘ee.” That’s all I want.” He extends his good hand, the cigarette pinched between the sides of his middle and index fingers. “’ee left in such a fury, that night.” 

“I think I had a right to do so,” they had argued, but they argued often, and that wasn’t what had been the final straw. It had been…maybe it had been an accumulation of everything, instead of just one giant fell blow. “You said you loved him more than me.” 

“No,” Joker shakes his head slowly. “Never that…” 

“But I know that you did. It was clear, especially in the choices that you made at the time, regarding…” Ronald can’t even finish his sentence. Of course, the child that had nearly been…not theirs, but close enough. “You threw me out of bed for Bravat.” 

“’ee threw me out for William,” Joker snaps suddenly, a hint of his temper surging like bile up his throat. “Did ‘ee forget that, fair convenient?” 

Ronald shrugged. His bourbon is almost gone. There is barely enough to color the bottom of the squat glass, and his hand is starting to sweat – his fingers sticking to the slick sides. “I went to William when I thought we were over.” 

“’ee needed someone to break your nose while shoving their cock up yer arse.” Joker’s grin is nasty, full of resentment and barely restrained anger. “I could ‘ave done that for ‘ee, ‘andsome. If ‘ee had begged a pretty for me as ‘ee did for him…” 

Ronald slams his palms down onto the counter. The patrons around him don’t even flinch. One bartender flicks him a look – he knows it well. He needs to either take this outside or he needs to simmer down. 

“I have to go home,” the blonde reaper says, keeping his gaze fixed on the counter as he tries to remember how to breathe. “Is there anything else you must say, before I go back to my apartment and consider shooting myself in the face, again?” 

There is another long pause, settling between them like an oil spill skimming the surface of a murky pond. 

“I wanted to say…” Joker’s skeletal hand moves to scratch the back of his head, and his eyes dart into the corners. “I miss ‘ee, and I never did stop loving ‘ee. I wish it could be…different. I wish ‘ee could try to love me, again.” 

Problem is, Ronald never stopped loving him either. He brings a hand up to rub his face – and he can smell the blood that smears all over his cheeks. He must have hit a splinter or something. Dammit. 

“If you loved me,” Ronald tries to spit out sincerity, but he isn’t good at it. “You would leave me alone. Understand I’ve moved on.” 

Joker swallows. A visible motion in his thin white throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Would ‘ee have tampered with me records, restored me from death, if ‘ee knew this would happen?” Maybe that is what Joker really came to ask. His face is so pale, and his flesh hand is quivering. 

“I don’t know,” Ronald really doesn’t. “Probably…probably yes. If I could go back. I’d still do it again.” 

That is as much as he is willing to admit. Ronald turns his back to Joker, wiping his bleeding palm on his pants. He was going to have to get them dry-cleaned, anyway. Not like blood on the work uniform was ever anything unusual.


	2. Just Survive - HighSchool!AU Eric/Alan

“Just Survive”  
High School!AU Eric/Alan 

Sophomore year. A good year for staying invisible. Freshmen get all of the attention, juniors have all of the fun and seniors get all of the events. But no one ever recalls their sophomore year – which is really what Alan is counting on, right now. He just hopes he can get over his current favored crisis in time to survive junior, senior year and eventually…college. 

One day at a time. That is what he has to focus on. One day at a time. 

The halls are empty – but not because he’s late. If anything, he’s stupid early, as if there aren’t going to be any available seats in the front of the class where he prefers to sit and bother the teacher. But if he can just make it to class and grab a seat directly in front of the teacher’s desk (or at least somewhere in that orbit) and pretend to bury himself in a thick textbook – the chances of being bothered will be slim to none. And then he won’t have to worry about any awkward social interactions for at least another hour. 

He doesn’t even know what he thinks is going to happen. It isn’t like he’s going to vomit up his secret at the first hint of human life. In reality, he isn’t even the only gay kid he knows. There are at least three in his class, and those are just the people who are open about it. But then, he’s the only gay kid at Mass, he’s pretty sure. And definitely the only gay kid within a sixty mile radius of his house. He’s heard the things his parents have to say, and he isn’t going to make himself the subject of their ridicule – especially not with his dad, who has snide expression and flamboyant hand gestures, if very rarely an outright slur. 

It doesn’t make sense, of course. They are good Catholics. They have raised their children the right way. The play by the book, and the Lord has been blessed them. So if they are doing all of the right things, then whatever is happening to him can’t be right. It has to be something he did, some sin he is paying for, or else…

He is so lost in thought that he doesn’t even see the trash can in his way. He narrowly avoids colliding with it, but his shoe clips one of the wheels, and the slight stumble is enough to send the binder in his arms crashing to the ground. Alan is already fighting back frustrated tears as he drops to his knees and starts grabbing fistfuls of scattered notebook paper, shoving it all back into his binder as quickly as he can before the next bell rings, and the halls flood with kids who are trying to get where they need to go… 

A handful of papers find their way to him, even as he’s prying open his three-ring binder to try and fit as many back into place as possible. Alan looks up, not even registering that there is a hand attached to them, completely separate from his own, a nice kind of tan that comes from running around a practice field…

“You dropped these,” the voice is playful, and Alan feels heat spring up to his pale cheeks, turning them red. He grabs the papers and pulls them away – hearing them rip as he does so only heightens his embarrassment. 

“Thanks,” he was going to say something more sarcastic, something far cleverer, but it dies on his tongue. He is captivated, now, caught staring in the face of Eric Richard Slingby...a junior, and one of the best athletes in school. At least, that is what all the yearbooks would have everyone believe. Eric’s bright green eyes are gleaming from the other side of his tinted blue sunglasses – which are a little bit dreadfully early 2000’s. 

“Where are you headed?” Eric reaches down and picks up Alan’s backpack without even asking. Alan’s eyes go round as coins as he stands, nearly spitting poison as he tries to reach out and take back what is his. 

“Class!” Alan hisses. He’s so much shorter than Eric, the comparison is almost insulting. “I have World History. I need my backpack.” He thinks about it, and then adds, “Please.” 

Eric laughs. He has a nice, easy laugh. He turns and starts walking down the hall – and with his bag captive, Alan has no choice but to follow him. He keeps close to the bigger teenager’s heels, feeling a little bit like a misplaced puppy. 

“Your bag is heavy,” Eric says. “You would think with all of this knowledge you could have thought to avoid the trashcan…” 

“Some careless janitor,’ Alan mutters. “It isn’t usually there.” 

“I guess not. Or we would have met sooner.” Eric glances at him again, as if trying to get a better look and at the same time assess his chances. “I’m Eric Slingby.” He says that, like his name alone is a badge of pride. 

“I’m Alan Humphries,” he tries to sound nonchalant, as if Eric’s obvious fame has not reached his ears. 

“Are you new here?” 

“No. We went to the same middle school, actually.” 

“Oh,” Eric rounds a corner, and Alan turns alongside him. “Did we ever talk in middle school?” 

“I don’t think so,” Alan thinks about it, hard. “I think one time you told me to get out of your way because you were trying to shoot your best friend with a spitball.” 

“Ahh,” Eric’s grin is back, sentimental. “Ronald.” 

“I didn’t get out of your way fast enough,” Alan says, “and you called me a loser.” 

Eric flinches. “Oh.” 

“It was a long time ago,” Alan amends. 

“Sure,” Eric replies. “But that doesn’t make it all right. Allow me to apologize for myself. I’ll buy you coffee.” 

“I don’t drink coffee,” the words barely exit Alan’s mouth before Eric comes to a complete halt, his shoes squealing against the shiny floor. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I think you stopped speaking English just then.” 

That coaxes a small smile onto Alan’s lips. “I don’t drink coffee,” he repeats. 

“That’s a crime. You just haven’t had good coffee.” The bell shrieks above their heads. Alan starts at the sound and Eric shrugs his big shoulders, sliding the backpack strap down the length of his arm and passing it back to the boy. “I can take you to my favorite place. After school?” 

“I don’t think so,” Alan takes the backpack, averting his gaze shyly. “But I appreciate the offer…” 

“No one will…” Eric pauses, considering how his words might sound for maybe the first time in his life. “No one is going to look at it like a date. You know, if that’s what you’re worried about, if you think someone might…”

“I didn’t say that,” Alan snips, but his heart isn’t in it. He looks back up at Eric. Such beautiful green eyes. Goddammit. And God forgive him. “Is it going to be a date, then?”

“Not if you don’t want it to be…” students are starting to spill into the hallway. Their time is effectively up. 

“Noted. I still don’t like coffee,” Alan gives him a faint smile. “But I will let you take me wherever you want to go.” 

Eric grins. He leans in, maybe to say something else, maybe to go for a hug – but Alan has already slipped through the door.

**Author's Note:**

> I know these fics aren't going to make a lot of sense. They aren't really supposed to. They are just extremely self-indulgent after I've gone so long without writing.


End file.
